


Use Somebody

by mariusette



Category: Amazing Spider-Man (2012), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-domestic Avengers, Steve gives good hugs, ~bonding~
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariusette/pseuds/mariusette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s voice is thick and barely there, filled with sympathy and, above all other things, understanding as he says, “You’re not alone, Pete. You’ll never be alone.”</p><p>--<br/>(Pre-domestic Avengers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exist

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a Pre-domestic Avengers. How teenage Peter Parker ends up as part of the Avengers, with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers as his guardians.  
> Bear with me, it may get a little sad, but it's all in the experience.

It’s raining on the day of the funeral. Not torrential down-pour rain – which would’ve just been the cherry on top of the ironic miserable cake that is his life – but it’s slow and quiet, like sad background noise to the dull hum of mourning voices in his living room.

The actual ceremony passes uneventfully, and Peter’s managed to hold himself together so far. He’s relatively worn out already– sick of crying, sick of having his mind continually wander to _that_ night. He can’t even begin to count just how many times he’s gone through different conclusions and alternative endings and realities in his head over the last few days, but, each and every time, they’ve only made him feel even _worse_.

And, each and every time, it always arrives at the same end – the ending where he _should’ve_ been home, where he _should’ve_ been with her. He’d been trying to do good for everyone, just like his Dad, but had simply managed to fail one of the only people that really meant something to him. The hold up on the subway went longer than he’d expected it to. The gunmen were easily taken down – _amateurs_ – but the train had let off two stops past his usual one. That, and the typical gang violence he’d come across on his way home, had distracted him, causing him to crawl home later than normal, and find Aunt May gone.

Standing alone in the corner of the cold living room, Peter feels uncomfortable in his stupid suit. As much an effort as he’d put into looking reasonably passable – hair combed, shoes polished, the whole thing – Peter knows that no one can’t see the dark bags under his puffy eyes. People are looking at him with all sorts of pity and sympathy and he just wants them to _leave_.

 They’re gathered in clusters around his living room, spilling into the hall and the kitchen. Peter made sure to lock to doors to his and his Aunt’s room before the ceremony, as well as the basement – as much as he doesn’t want them in the house, at least they can’t get into the better parts of the house. He’s meant to stay downstairs and talk to people, but he’s isolated himself to the corner of the room, just beside the window, trying to look preoccupied or busy, but it hasn’t worked very well.

Some of them have actually approached him, tried to talk him into providing some sort of response, before apologising for things he doesn’t want to hear, and walking off again. They’ve probably accepted that he’s catatonic; he must be doing a pretty good job of pretending, since they’d all given up in the end. He doesn’t care about what they want to tell him, how many times they want to apologise and tell him how they knew his aunt – it doesn’t matter to him at all. None of it will bring her back, will undo his faults and allow him to redo the whole thing. Peter just wants them _gone_ – out of his face, out of his house, and out of his life. He wants to be away from all these people that he doesn’t know, and he never wants to see them again.

He’s trying to think of _anything_ else but the image of his Aunt, alone and bleeding in an alley, when a man approaches him. Peter catches a glimpse of his trim, black suit and tie – looking like he’s part of the secret service or that he’s tumbled out of ‘ _Men in Black_ ’ – then chooses to keep his head down and his mouth shut, hoping that the man will just walk away and leave him alone, just like everyone else has.

But he doesn’t.

“Peter,” he begins softly, minimal traces of sympathy present in his tone. It’s strange but not unusual that everyone actually knows him. His voice is clipped and formal, and the authority of it makes Peter squirm slightly. “My name is Phil Coulson. I’m from child protection services.”

If it were possible, Peter’s heart would’ve dropped even further through the floor. He _knew_ this was coming, but he’d shoved it as far into the recesses of his mind as he could possibly manage. He was really fucking trying to avoid it, to put it off as long as possible, but, in the end, it really was inevitable. With his Aunt and Uncle dead, as well as his parents, Peter can’t think of a single proper place left for him to go. He’s well and truly alone. At seventeen he can’t move out on his own and, despite being able to handle bank robberies and mutant monsters, he needs a guardian – a guardian that actually, and unfortunately, _doesn’t exist_.

He knows what’s happening, so there’s no use curtailing it. Glancing up, Peter meets the man’s grey eyes with one raised eyebrow, “What’re you gonna do? Put me in a home?”

Coulson tilts his head slightly, keeping a straight face, “We’re trying to delay that as long as possible.” That really throws Peter off guard. What? Weren’t these people meant to be dead set on sending him somewhere as hellish as possible? When Peter doesn’t answer, the man continues effortlessly, “We’re sending someone to live with you for a few days until we can sort out an alternate option.”

At this, he bristles, “I can handle myself for a few days.” He’s done it before. At school, he’s a loser; he’s always by himself, reading or studying or avoiding bullies and the like. As Spiderman, he’s a solo act – he always has been. The police certainly don’t like him, and half the time he feels like a fugitive, despite the fact he’s working to do good. So, surely he can live alone for a few days without blowing something up or killing himself, before he gets sent to some unfamiliar house where he might actually try to do so.

“I know,” Straight-faced and calm, Phil nods, but his eyes are filled with understanding and compassion. Peter can’t deny how odd it is to see such a look on the man’s face – it doesn’t seem usual, but it doesn’t seem entirely unnatural either. “But I think you could use a hero right now.”

Given the bleak circumstances, he highly doubts the existence of any sort of hero right now – fictional or otherwise.


	2. Wash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not too serious, but there's a brief description of a nightmare in here that might be slightly, uh, freaky for imaginations? It might not be that bad, but just thought I'd warn you. :)
> 
> edit: 'Wash' - Bon Iver

Peter sleeps fitfully for the two hours that he actually manages to sleep. In between what seems like hours of staring at the blank ceiling above him, there are nightmares. He can’t even find any sort of solace in the escape that sleep is _meant_ to provide. Every time he manages _some_ sort of rest, he wakes with a start, panting and reduced to tears. He doesn’t need to remember his dreams to know what they were about.

Nightmares and things like this are common during grief – he’s read about it briefly and it’s extremely common in movies – but, _fuck_ , it really, _really_ sucks. Peter always starts somewhere near or in the house, everything dark and, well, _completely normal_. But, on further inspection, the kitchen’s empty, along with every other room in the house, then he’s out swinging through the night and panic is rising like there’s no tomorrow, because _Aunt May is gone._ He hates how he never manages to regain consciousness before dropping to the alley pavement, wet with rain water and blood, beside the corpse of his aunt, gruesome and twisted with the grief and guilt of his dream.

With this every hour, like a bad TV re-run, it’s no surprise that he’s a mess when he pulls himself out of bed just before six. The sun is barely filtering through the thick blinds on his window, and the chirping birds sound as though they’re making a mockery of his pain.

The cold is biting as he leaves his room and heads towards the bathroom, because god knows he needs to brush his teeth or something to at least try and remove the sick feeling he’s got hanging around him like the plague. The mirror, however, only makes him feel worse. Hair sticking up at haphazard angles, bags as dark as death itself under his eyes, it looks as though he’s been dragged through a field of spikes and rocks. In many ways, he has.  

Sighing, he attacks his face with several handfuls of freezing water, scrubbing at his eyes as he does. It sends shivers through him, which Peter pointedly ignores as he continues, trying to wake himself up from some horrid reality.

When it doesn’t work, he grabs the bottle of mouthwash and swallows a little too much, before coughing and spluttering into the sink. He can't actually find the motivation to leave the bathroom – it’s freezing, but it smells too much like his Aunt to make him want to leave it behind.

Instead of tending to the grumbling in his stomach, Peter chooses to stay in the small room for another hour or so, mainly standing aimlessly in the warm water of the shower. It’s comforting and sort of a last resort – his ambition to do anything else might as well have just punctured rock bottom and gone careening into the pits of hell. The water is comforting, to say the least. The warmth of it – probably several degrees into heatwave territory – leaves Peter’s skin red and tingly afterwards, even as he leaves the bathroom.

Still somewhat ragged and aimless, he’s downstairs just staring at the remaining contents of the empty fridge – some juice, eggs, and cheese aren’t really anything spectacular – when the door bell rings around nine. Peter doesn’t move to answer it, deciding that he’d rather stare the crap out of the lone bottle of mayonnaise on the shelf than talk to someone.

He wants to be left alone; it’s on the top of his mental to-do list. He doesn’t want some stranger comforting him, nor does he think that Gwen, the only one who he knows that might actually care, has heard the news and decided to spontaneously fly back from a science conference in Canada to see him. It really shouldn’t be a hard thing, staying alone, but the odds haven’t really been in his favour as of late.

Whoever is it doesn’t seem to understand that, metaphorically, ‘ _no one’s home_ ’, so Peter drags himself to his feet with a miserable sigh and shuffles to the door. He’s greeted with the irony of a happy cheerful morning, and Phil Coulson, who stands on his door step looking exactly as he did yesterday.

“Peter,” He regards him with a casual nod. Peter chooses not to respond, wondering silently if the man actually has any sort of other facial expression or attire other than that poker face and the secret-agent suit. If he has any concerns about Peter’s condition, he doesn’t say. “I’m just here briefly, don’t worry. May we come inside?”

Peter blinks, confused, “ _We?_ ”

As if to answer his question, Phil steps aside. Peter holds a hand over his eyes and has to squint to actually make out Coulson’s ‘other half’. He comes to the conclusion that the muscled blond man getting out the sleek black car – god, how super-spy does he want to be? – is the other half of ‘ _we_ ’. Despite his brain being somewhat slow with all the stress, eventually it clicks. So _this_ is his proxy-guardian – his _baby sitter_.

Without a word, Peter turns and retreats back into the living room, leaving the front door open and Coulson to make up his own mind. If things weren’t already pretty terrible, this has definitely put a sour note on the morning that Peter thought he’d actually have to himself.

After a few moments, they follow him into the room, stopping in the door way. Phil looks as formal and as calm as ever, keeping his grey eyes focused intently on Peter. Standing in the kitchen, in the same track pants and shirt he ‘slept’ in last night, Peter definitely feels scrutinised. The blond man, however, is quietly observing the quaint space with careful consideration. There's a small, tattered suitcase in one of his hands, which looks as though it’s existed for over half a century. Actually, upon closer inspection, the man himself looks as though he’s been raised on old war movies and magazines that advertised only cargo pants, white shirts, and straight-cut hair styles. It’s baffling, because it seems as though he’s been living under a rock, thus missing every fad and fashion trend since the 30s.

Peter takes the carton of milk from the fridge and twists the lid off, waiting for them to make the first move. He brings it to his mouth and takes a sip as Coulson begins speaking again.

“We’re figuring out legal issues and options for your custody, so it will take a few days at most. He’ll be staying with you until we can get them sorted.” He looks over at the other man and motions him forward with a nod.

Leaving the suitcase neatly by the doorframe, the blond man steps forward with a soft smile on his face and consideration in his eyes. Peter hates how the man immediately makes him feel somewhat safe. He offers a hand, which Peter shakes after a few moments of resignation, “I’m Steve.”

Behind him, Coulson pipes up proudly, “He’s the best we’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I just wanted to thank everyone who commented and left a kudos! It means a lot that you actually think this is good!  
> I really, really appreciate it! :)


	3. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really emotionally damaging in this chapter! There's some bonding, though. Ehehe.
> 
> Also, I suppose I should mention that in this Steve is sort of Captain America's secret identity, which is why Peter doesn't recognise him. :)

Peter has the obligation of showing Steve a place where he can sleep –a last minute pillow on the fold out sofa because there is no way in hell that _anyone_ is allowed into his Aunt’s room, including himself – before Coulson decides that it’s an ideal time to leave them be. As soon as he’s gone, Peter heads upstairs and shuts his door. Steve doesn’t follow him, which he’s really thankful for. He doesn’t think he can handle an actual attempt at conversation right now, especially after it was sort of, well, forced onto him before by Coulson’s investigative questions about _how the hell did he think he could survive?_ Maybe that was only inferred by Peter, but that’s sure as hell what all the queries about school and food and friends sounded like.

He spends hours alone in his room, preoccupying himself a Rubik’s cube. It manages to keep him from thinking about anything else. Sure, he could be scrolling through things on the internet, drafting advancements on his suit – god, he could even be doing _homework_ – but he made a grab for the thing that required the least amount of motivation, but still a substantial amount of conscious thought.

As the final block clicks into place, Peter holds it up and examines it. With all sides looking perfect and pristine, this makes a total of sixteen. He’s solved the cube twenty nine times in the last six hours. This is slow for him – normally he can make that in hardly any time at all – which is slightly frustrating, but it really can’t be helped when distractions are rampant.

Sighing, he puts it on the cluttered bedside table and stares at the ceiling; it’s white and patchy and not really anything interesting to stare at, but it’s better than having to look at all the photos and documents and memories around his room. He’s not hungry – hasn’t been particularly hungry for a few days now – but, now that he pays some sort of attention, he can definitely smell something nice. Listening carefully, Peter can hear Steve walking around downstairs in the kitchen, opening cupboards and using the sink. He can also hear him talking quietly, presumably on the phone with someone. With a quick look out the window, he realises that it’s dark out.

Something pangs in his chest and he draws a shaky breath. Normally, if this were a usual day, he’d be out there – he takes pride in being out there every night. It’s the rush and the thrill of it all that used to keep his mind off of school; as Peter Parker he could stand up for people and take the blows in stride, but had no influence on bullies at all, but, as Spiderman, he was free to take out his frustration from real life _while_ working for the people. It certainly beat sitting in a room and doing the homework that he already knew the answers to.

There’s a dull ache inside of him as Peter turns and sits up, staring at the window. Steve hasn’t bothered him once today. It occurs to him that this might actually work. If he leaves the light off, there’s a chance that his ‘guardian’ won’t bother checking in. His suit is still dirty – stuffed in his backpack and stained with _her_ blood – so he’ll have to go casual. The hooded jacket and jeans will work. If he sticks to the back streets, he won’t be noticed. Climbing is all he really needs to do; the web-shooters are in his bag, and he really can’t handle rummaging through that right now. The conclusion is no crime fighting, just air – fresh, living air – to clear his head.

Getting up, he quietly flicks the light off, filling the room with darkness. He snags his converse from beside his desk and awkwardly pulls them onto his feet as he quickly crosses the room to his window. Pushing it open, Peter closes his eyes and sighs. The air is cool and calm on his face, and he already feels lighter – free from at least some of his stress.

Gripping the window sill, he puts a foot on the frame and exhales. There’s a drop from the second story to an alley way just below which he’s cleared plenty of times; a free fall which he can roll out from or, alternatively, he can just start climbing from here. Leaning out slightly, Peter doesn’t need to hold on very tightly to stay balanced as he takes a look above him. It’s slightly cloudy, the thin grey wisps drifting hauntingly in front of the moon, and it’s doubtful that it’ll rain on him.

He’s just about ready to launch himself at the wall opposing his window when a sound echoes from the hall. Peter freezes instinctively. He senses it and turns before the door to his room opens.

“Peter?”

Light streams into the room and he’s left looking right into Steve’s concerned eyes. The man turns the light on, eyes widening when he sees Peter half out the window. Guilt and disappointment fill him and, after a few moments, Peter sighs and draws himself back into the room, shutting the window as he does.

“I was, uh,” Peter’s at a loss for words, trying to explain something futile to a man he doesn’t even know. The awkwardness of the situation is suffocating. Shrugging, he gestures half-heartedly to the window, “Fresh air.”

Steve seems to understand, his face softening as he straightens. “I didn’t want to bother you, and I know it seems rude to ask, but could you help me with something?”

“Um,” Peter stares at the ground, at his beaten up shoes, and feels trapped. Tonight seems as though it isn’t going to happen, now that Steve’s caught him once. Shaking his head, he shrugs and kicks off his shoes, “Yeah, sure.”

“Great, thank you,” He smiles briefly at Peter and disappears out into the hall, leaving the door open as he goes.

Shoulders hunched slightly, Peter sighs and runs his hands through his hair in slight frustration. He really hadn’t known how much he’d been looking forward to getting out there until now.  After a few moments, he heads out of his room after Steve, kicking one of his shoes out into the hall and pocketing his hands as he goes.

He finds Steve in the kitchen, staring at the oven. Blinking in confusion, Peter stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching the man. Steve’s still wearing the same white shirt-cargo pants combination as before, seemingly impervious to the winter cold – in all honesty, Peter really wouldn’t put it past him. A guy with that much muscle really could pass as a portable heater.  

He feels the need to say something before Steve hurts himself thinking, “Uh, what’d you need?”

“Oh, yeah,” With a hand, Steve indicates to the oven half heartedly. “The, uh... could you get this working, please?”

Wordlessly, Peter walks over to stand beside Steve, looking at it. It’s obvious that Steve’s already tried to get it working, as a few of the knobs are on certain settings and the trays inside have been shuffled around. To Peter, the oven, despite being old fashioned, is really nothing compared to half of the stuff he’s fixed before, so it confuses him slightly that Steve can’t get it.

Bending down, he twists one of the knobs around, until he hears the familiar click of the fan starting. “What are you cooking?” Peter asks absently as he continues.

Behind him, Steve seems caught off guard yet welcome to his question, “Quiche – I made a fair bit, just in case you wanted some. It was all I could really find in the fridge.”

“It’s fine, really,”

Despite Peter’s half-hearted answer, Steve makes an earnest attempt to continue the conversation, “I rang a friend first, to see if he could help. I didn’t want to bother you in case you were sleeping,” The man’s laugh is sheepish yet melancholy as he continues without an answer, “From what I understood, he, uh, he called me an old man and made a reference to housewives? You’re definitely a better choice, though.”

Peter, not really knowing how to answer, feels awkward in the silence follows. As he adjusts the temperature on the oven, turning it on and altering the settings, there’s a small part of him that can’t help but warm to Steve slightly – despite everything, he really does sound like he’s trying. Peter straightens when he finishes, watching as the small oven light flickers on inside like a beacon of success.

Steve smiles at him from where he now leans against the counter, “Thanks,” Peter shrugs and moves aside, reaching to grab a glass from the cupboard above the stove. Steve continues talking, trying to fill the quiet, “We, uh, didn’t have stuff like this where I came from,”

A glass in his hand, Peter blinks and looks over at him in confusion, “...ovens?”

“No, oh no – all the electric business everywhere,” He looks sheepish, running a hand through his blonde hair. “I’m not used to it.”

It really doesn’t make sense. Steve looks to be twenty five, thirty at most, so he really couldn’t have had absolutely no experience with things like ovens – surely he’s _cooked_ before.  Curiosity takes over before Peter can stop it, “Where did you come from?”

“Uh,” Steve hesitates, his face creasing slightly, “Brooklyn.”

“But, Brooklyn’s in _New York_ —”

“Hey, bud, you, uh,” Steve cuts him off abruptly as he walks forward, picking the tray of pre-made quiche off the counter.  He pulls open the oven door and slides them inside easily, clicking it shut behind. Standing, he turns back to Peter with a slightly concerned look, “You hungry? You haven’t eaten all day.”

Peter examines the glass in his hands, avoiding the man’s eyes, “Nah. Not really.”

“I guess we’re kinda different then,” Good naturedly, Steve shrugs and runs a finger along the counter. “I used to take my grief out on food and other stuff.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, trying to sound interested. The man’s obviously trying, might as well not ignore him, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He nods, watching Peter as he speaks, “I used to get into fights, too... to help me deal with stuff, you know? Got beaten up a lot, though. It wasn’t the nicest thing.”

“Why’d people want to fight you?” It’s a question that just slips out, along with “You’re, uh, you’re a nice guy.”

Steve cracks a smile at that, chuckling slightly, “Pick on the scrawny kid. I used to make it worse, though. Standing up for people’s a hard job.”

Before he can realise it, Peter’s responded, “Yeah, it is.” It surprises him as much as it does Steve, whose eyes widen slightly. Absently, he’s just vaguely admitted a serious part of his life – the fights and bullies at school, along with everything as Spiderman– to a guy that, even though he’s barely known for a day, seems to understand where he’s coming from. It doesn’t bother him as much as it shocks him, though. The fact that he finds it so easy to actually tell Steve this strikes something within Peter – maybe this guy isn’t as bad as he thinks.

Filling up his glass with water from the tap, Peter takes a moment to look at Steve as the man bustles around the small kitchen. There’s something about him that Peter can’t quite place. It’s strange that someone so good would get picked on. It’s slightly weird how Steve isn’t used to technology despite growing up in and around New York. Now that he thinks about it, Steve’s voice does sound really, really familiar. The set of his jaw and shape of his face is familiar too.

With the glass resting on his lips, Peter levels a stare at Steve, “You’re, uh, really familiar.”

Peter doesn’t miss how he stiffens slightly, nor does he miss the slightly forced smile on the man’s face when he says, “Maybe I just have one of those faces, y’know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really would like to thank everyone who's read this so far! It really means a lot that you seem to be liking and enjoying this!  
> Uh, if anyone was interested, this also appears on tumblr [here](http://otterosync.tumblr.com)~  
> Please feel free to leave behind any comments or critiques or suggestions at all! :)


	4. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hopefully it doesn't get too sad towards the end? This would really have more of an impact if the next chapter was right after it, but this'll have to do for now! 
> 
> Oh, also I suppose I should mention that I use songs for each chapter in case you wanted some background music to your reading.  
> This one is 'Run' - Snow Patrol. 
> 
> Enjoy!

After the short conversation with Steve, Peter excuses himself, feigning exhaustion and trying not to feel guilt over his refusal to eat Steve’s quiche. He doesn’t try to sneak out again, because Steve’s already caught him once, so he retreats to bed almost immediately, even just to lie there doing nothing, trying to think nothing. He pulls the blankets up over his head and curls in on himself, suddenly filled with the cold, empty sensation of loneliness. Peter’s pretty sure that he’d give anything – an arm, a leg, his heart on a fucking _platter_ – for even just a hug from his Aunt right now.

It takes a while, but he eventually finds some peaceful sleep amongst the haunting, bloody dreams of guilt and misery. Slowly, they’re getting better, nicer. He can predict mainly what happens in them now, as they just tend to repeat themselves. They always end the exactly the same way, and he jolts awake, left with just the pain of the memory.

At one point, his Aunt and Uncle, as well as his parents, decide to appear and blame him for _everything_. Peter can’t help but wake suddenly, shallow breaths slipping past the ungodly lump in his throat and ache in his chest. Instead of making his way downstairs to find someone, like he used to as a child, he stays in bed, pulling the quilt around himself and biting his knuckle as the tears sting in his eyes.

They’re right; it _is_ his fault.

Peter wakes as the sun begins to rise but, instead of pulling himself out of bed to shower or for an early morning run, he just lies there, still and staring at the ceiling. He can’t remember falling asleep again, but he’s grateful; _some_ sleep is better than none at all. Fragments of dreams spring to life in his head and he frowns, trying to squash them out. He doesn’t want them around. He needs something; he needs a _distraction_.    

When he drags himself downstairs at seven thirty with his messenger bag, Steve’s sitting at the table with the newspaper, looking completely normal. It appears as though he’s figured out how to use toaster, because the plate sitting in front of him has a fair few pieces on it. The curtains have been pulled back and the kitchen is neat. Something pulls at Peter’s heart. It looks lived in and loved. The living room and kitchen, which he thought would stay dark and bleary forever, are brighter. It feels like _home_. He can’t deny how Steve just seems to fit in amongst this easily, as though he was a missing puzzle piece.

Peter can feel the tears prick at his eyes so he ducks his head, not wanting him to see. This is stupid; he shouldn’t be so sensitive – at least not in front of anyone. Steve notices him as he quietly heads towards the fridge, “Hey, bud. How are you?”

Opening the fridge, it’s already obvious that there’s nothing fresh inside. It seems as though Steve took it upon himself to empty out all the off-meat and milk before it began to rot properly. The inside is incredibly bare compared to what he’s used to, and he makes it even worse by taking the bottle of orange juice from the door.

“I’m, uh... I’m fine.” It’s not a life story, but it gets the point across, because Steve drops the subject, despite that fact that they both know he’s not fine.

He can’t see himself being ‘fine’ for a long time. Peter knows that he looks like shit. Even after a long shower it looks like he’s been dragged through hell and back; his hair messy with laziness and lack of motivation, his face sullen and bleak no matter what he tries to do.

Unscrewing the cap, Peter finds the manners in himself to actually use a glass for his juice, just in case Steve was interested in having some later. The man is watching him closely, a piece of toast in one hand, “I – ...I really didn’t expect you to be up for a while.”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Neither did I.”

Not hungry, Peter finishes his glass and turns it upside down in the sink. Steve continues talking, just as he did last night, “There’s some quiche left over, if you’re hungry. It really doesn’t matter if you eat it now, if you want.” Collecting his plate, he stands and moves over towards the kitchen, “I’ll go pick up some things from the store later. So if you want anything, just let me – hey, what’d you do to your hand?”

“Uh,” Peter blinks and looks up at Steve quickly, reading the concern in his face, before turning away and covering his hand. He really didn't think he'd bitten his knuckle that hard but, when he'd washed his hands, it'd stung painfully, “Nothing. It’s nothing. Ah, er just a scratch – nothing fatal.” The last thing he wants is for Steve to worry and grill him about things. He wouldn’t understand – no one would understand. Quickly, he tries to avoid suspicion by attempting to recover the conversation, “Milk. Yeah, chocolate milk, please.”

It takes Steve a moment to realise what he’s just said, before he shakes his head and offers Peter a soft smile. “Sure, I can do that. Regular supermarket, right?”

“...yeah?”

 “Good, yeah. I mean,” Steve clears his throat, “Of course regular supermarket. I’ll, uh, pick some up for you.” An eyebrow raised in confusion, Peter really doesn’t know how to reply properly; he can’t deny that Steve is really kind of, well, _strange_. The awkward silence that follows seems to push Steve into speaking, “Any plans for today?”

“...yeah.” Readjusting the strap on his shoulder, he walks past Steve and into the hall. He pauses in the doorway, realising that he should give the man some sort of _actual_ explanation so he doesn’t flip out and go to Coulson about a missing, potentially dead seventeen year old. “Uh, school.” Steve’s eyes widen with surprise. Peter repeats it aloud, as if reassuring both him and his guardian that _yes_ , that is where he is actually going to be all day, “I’ll, um, I’ll be at school.”

And before Steve can say anything else, before he can even slightly protest, Peter’s walked out of the house and into the sunshine, leaving the front door to swing shut behind him.

\--

School provides him with the relevant distraction that he needs, as well as the combined achievement of making him feel even worse. He didn’t think it was possible, but suddenly Peter feels even _more_ alone amongst the other students. The condescending glances and judgemental stares he used to receive have transformed into pitying and sorrowful looks. They may feel sorry for him, but they don’t even _bother_ approaching him. It used to be easy to blend in, to remain even just slightly anonymous on the days where he wasn’t standing up for someone however but, now, he’s just the dorky orphan and _everyone_ knows it.

The teachers give him special treatment; it’s so blatantly obvious it makes Peter want to tear his hair out. A few of them actually come up to him in attempt to console him for something that he doesn’t want to share. Even when he ignores them or brushes them off, they take it as part of the mourning process – which, quite frankly, _it is_ – and try to give him even more useless advice that, if he actually wanted it, could be found online.

Peter can deal with it. He dealt with it when Uncle Ben died, so this is should be no different. He puts on a tough face and ignores _everyone_ – teachers and students alike – as he makes his way to his English class. Flash, his absolute _favourite_ ass-wipe, actually tries to _pat him on the shoulder_ and console him with his sudden formation of a soul. It takes everything that Peter has to swallow his frustration, keep a relatively straight face, and keep walking without trying to punch him fair-square in the face.

It’s only when he’s sitting in English, not even having the ambition to ignore the teacher and doodle on his page, that it becomes unbearable.

Innocently, the teacher brings up Pride and Prejudice in relation to the text that he hasn’t read yet. However, the mention of book causes his breath to catch in his throat. He had a conversation with Aunt May about it once, which had somehow ended with them watching the movie together. It’d been a moderately cool day – just like today – and they’d made popcorn and dragged a few blankets downstairs and, together, they’d actually sat there waiting for the other to give up first and declare it absolutely horrible. They’d both made it to the credits after poking fun at anything they could find, especially how his Aunt had tried to hide how it’d actually made her tear up.

Peter had pushed it to the farthest reaches of his mind; he hadn’t even remembering it slightly until now, as it suddenly comes flying back, like a slap to the face and a punch to the gut, bringing tears to his eyes. The familiarity and sharpness of the memory is too much. Everything suddenly becomes too painful and, in the middle of class, he stands abruptly, interrupting the teacher. He’s collected his books and his bag and darted from the classroom, a lump forming in his throat before anyone can react. The teacher calls after him but he doesn’t look back.

He’s barely made it outside the school when he breaks into sobs – desperate, lonely, heart- wrenching sobs – but he doesn’t stop walking. He can’t stop walking. He needs to get away from here – from people, from school, from pity, from _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeep, the story is progressing well.  
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or comments, or even just read this! You have my complete appreciation. 
> 
> Comments are completely welcome! Don't be scared to say anything. :)  
> The next update should be the 22nd at the latest!


	5. Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to look out for in this chapter:  
> \- feelings  
> \- sadness
> 
> The song for this chapter is 'Hide and Seek' - Imogen Heap.
> 
> Good luck and enjoy!

It hits lunchtime and he’s still sitting on top of a rather large apartment building, just as he has been for the past two hours. Knees pulled to his chest, arms holding himself together, Peter can’t even find the drive to move. He’s been staring at the same spot down on the street for hours, watching the traffic and pedestrians go about their usual business, oblivious to the pain in his world.

There are several missed calls on his phone; all from an unknown number which he assumes belongs to either Steve or Coulson. He doesn’t know how they might’ve gotten his number but, really, it doesn’t matter.

He’s stuck dwelling in all the thoughts he’d been trying to avoid. Uncle Ben’s ridiculous sense of humour and the unfailing faith that he’d had in him. Aunt May’s average, slightly burnt, yet entirely perfect food – the frozen spaghetti that he’d always find in the freezer with his name on the container. How they were always, _always_ there for him no matter how many times he got beaten up, came home late, or forgot to do something important. How they never blamed him, not once, for anything at all – never for what happened to his parents, never for Uncle Ben’s death. Only, now that they’re gone, it all comes crashing back. Uncle Ben _was_ his fault, and so was Aunt May. Both of them – it’s all on him.

A choked sob escapes his throat before he can stop it.

The faint wind does nothing to calm him down or put him at peace. It only hurts him more – _everything_ reminds him of them. His Aunt had a dress as blue as the sky. The antennae beside him looks all too much like the one he and his Uncle put in together. Exhaling, Peter leans his forehead on his knees and rests his hands on the back of his neck. He doesn’t even try to stop the sobs that tear at his body and manage to cause him physical pain.

He deserves it.

All of it is his fault.

And he’s never felt more alone in his life.

\--

When he drags himself home around five, Steve isn’t around. It worries him immediately because _oh god no, not another one_. Peter doesn’t know what comes over him, but he drops his books immediately near the front door and searches the house for any sign of Steve. His heart is pounding in his ears and he can feel himself on the verge of hysteria – the last time someone went looking for him, they never made it home.

Standing in the kitchen, after double checking every room twice, Peter’s mind is screaming at him, hoping that maybe Steve’s just asleep somewhere or trying to figure out another appliance instead of actually having disappeared like the fucking invisible lady.

As a last resort, he pulls out his phone and quickly redials the unknown number. It rings out, much to his dismay. Peter can’t deny how worried he is; it’s eating him up inside, nearly as much as the guilt of it all that’s threatening to swallow him whole. 

Just because Steve is muscled and strong and seems like he could hold his own, it doesn’t mean that he could have. If he’s been attacked by a gang or mugged at gun point, Peter highly doubts that Steve could overpower them all; it’d be a job for a group of people, but there’s no way in hell that the flipping _Avengers_ would spontaneously find and save him, let alone the actual police. The chances of Iron Man doing a spontaneous fly around or Captain America randomly popping up somewhere to save the day are incredibly, _incredibly_ slim. Peter refuses to believe it but, maybe, Steve – nice, friendly Steve - is doomed, and it’s his fault _again_.

He’s breathing in sharp, shallow breaths and his other hand is threatening to pull his hair out and he’s trying to ring the number for a fifth time, because Spidey is a last resort option, when he senses something. The front door opens and Peter scrambles over to the doorway separating the door and the living room. And then Steve enters, looking entirely _normal_ and _safe_ , plastic shopping bags hanging from his arms. Peter nearly crumples right there on the spot in a puddle of relief. 

Steve sees him and pauses, concern filling every crevice and line of his face, “Peter? Is everything—?”

“No!” He snaps before he can stop himself, cutting the other man off mid-sentence. Head shaking, shoulders quivering slightly, Peter can’t help but feel as though he’s well and truly just fallen into the dark fucking pit of unholy hell that is his grief. “ _No_ , everything is _not_ alright! It’s not! I—I don’t have a _family_ , Steve. I don’t have any friends – I don’t have... I don’t _have_ _anyone!_ ” Through the pain, Peter realises that he’s shouting but can’t seem to stop himself. Unwittingly, he’s turned all his emotions – all of his anger, frustration, desperation and misery at everything that’s happened– on Steve, “Why are you even here? It’s not like you _want_ to be here, putting up with a useless, runaway teenager! You’re going to be gone soon, so why don’t you just leave now?! I’m already alone; I don’t need you to delay that! There’s no one left for me, they’re all _dead!_ ” The last word seems to hang painfully in the silence that follows. Peter draws a shaky breath and clutches at the doorframe, eyes brimming with tears and chest giving him a physical, aching pain, as though someone has thrust a dagger right through him. He refuses to look at Steve; he can’t _bear_ it. His throat hurts as he manages to quietly rasp out, “All of them...they’re all dead...”

There’s no movement in the hallway. Neither of them have moved at all since he finished, and it doesn’t seem like it can go anywhere from here. Everything is tense and painful and Peter can’t help but stand there, breathing heavily through the tears. 

And then, almost suddenly, there are several thumps and smashes and oranges rolling along the floor, before Steve pulls him into a tight, frantic, desperate hug.

It turns out that it – the physical contact, the insane comfort of it all– is the catalyst, because whatever bits of Peter that remained intact crumple and shatter along with the shopping on the floor, as he returns the embrace, clinging almost pathetically to the back of Steve’s shirt.

They’re just standing there, wrapped in each other’s arms, and Peter can’t help but feel so immensely grateful. He’s sobbing and making a mess and embarrassing himself in front of Steve, the only person right now that he actually wants to be good for. And then Steve, being the absolute angel that he is, is just letting him; not saying a word, he's just holding Peter like nothing else in the world actually matters, even though this probably wasn’t even in his job description. Peter hasn’t received a _proper_ hug, nothing nearly as comforting as this, since before her death. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like; through the warm and reassurance of it all, Peter can’t think straight. Steve’s arms seem to fold almost completely around the entire width of his shoulders, holding him close, almost protectively, as they just stand in the hall surrounded by broken groceries and shattered glass. There’s a hand on the back of his head, supportive and calm, and even Steve’s scent is comforting – in the strangest way possible, it reminds him of something he didn’t know he’d been missing; _home._

Steve’s voice is thick and barely there, filled with sympathy and, above all other things, understanding as he says, “You’re not alone, Pete. You’ll never be alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone so far! I love all of you.
> 
> Comments are entirely welcome, but I don't mind at all! 
> 
> The, er, next update should be on or around the 23rd. :)


	6. Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a SHIELD censored History lesson. 
> 
> ['Eet' - Regina Spektor](http://www.listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=3PbBN0GMkVw&feature=related) is this chapter's song! I've put a convenient link there if you wanted it. :)

Steve is actually pretty good at making hot chocolates, despite not knowing how to work a coffee machine. 

Peter’s sitting on the couch near the window, staring at steaming mug in his hands, mind fuzzy with thought and embarrassment. He can’t recall how long they were standing there, embraced in the hallway. He barely even knows Steve at all, and he’s freaking _cuddled_ the man for a weird, extended period of time, sobbing into him like a prepubescent girl; there is no way this is an actual _decent_ impression to give anyone. Time escapes him in every notion except for the fact that it’s now dark out.  It’s maybe past the usual dinner time, but he’s not hungry. Apart from the drink in his hand – which hardly counts as food – he hasn’t eaten all day.

Steve sits on the other couch, perpendicular to his, a similar hot chocolate in his hands. The room is filled with the sweet smell from the drinks, and it’s comforting. Whoever invented chocolate was probably the God of good intentions or something, because Peter is grateful to the calming sensation of the drink. By this point, he’s also really, _really_ thankful for Steve, who might as well be the actual God of good intentions because, so far, he’s been nothing but sweet and kind. The man’s eyes are red-rimmed and downcast as he stirs the drink absently. It strikes Peter only now that Steve had been crying too, which only further emphasizes just how compassionate he is.

Despite the fact that it’s warm in the room, he’d had one of Aunt May’s knit blankets pulled around his shoulders by Steve when he’d first sat down on the comfy old couch. The man had merely said “shock blanket,” before heading off to make the drinks. The hunch of his shoulders now makes Peter wish that the man had his own shock blanket, no matter how naturally warm he is.

The silence they sit in now isn’t at all awkward like it had been – it’s actually quite natural. Peter takes a sip of his drink – rich, sweet, and strong, just how he’s always liked it – when Steve breaks the silence.

“I, uh...” He focuses his attention to the mug in his hands, turning it around with the handle, “I understand, you know.” His face is bleak as his eyebrows furrow with thought.  There’s a voice in Peter’s head that, quite rudely, says _‘here we go with the sob story’_ , but he squashes it out. After what’s happened tonight, it’s worth giving the man a chance to at least speak.

 There are a few moments of silence before Steve starts again, grief lacing his tone, “We’re... we’re alike, Pete. When I was your age, I wanted to prove myself. However I could, I would try. I wanted to stand up and show people that I wasn’t just some pushover; some scrawny kid. I tried signing up for the, uh,” He pauses, as if thinking of a word, “The army, yeah. I tried _everything_ to stop the evil, stop the, well, _bullies_. And, I...” Hand tightening on the mug, Steve swallows and takes a breath, “I lost out.

“My best friend, he... I watched him _die_ in front of me. I blamed myself. Then there was an accident – I acted to protect people, to be a _hero_ and save what I could. When I woke up, though...” Hunched forward, staring daggers at the shaking cup in his hands, Steve looks forlorn and worn out – too experienced and ragged for a thirty year old. His voice is shaky as he continues, “...When I woke up, they were gone. My _friends_ , my _family_... everyone and everything I’d promised,” He exhales, long and sad, “Gone.”

Peter isn’t in the most stable state and it appears that, despite the blatant physical strength, neither is Steve. He can see the anguish on the man’s face as he recalls the details and relives the pain, all for his sake. And Peter can’t deny that his story is affecting him too, pulling at the tension of grief in his chest, which has suddenly decided to reappear, and making it harder to breathe. The similarities aren’t fair, and he doesn’t want to hear how it finishes up; the fear of a bad ending hangs over his head.  “Steve, uh... you really don’t have to—”

“No,” Steve cuts him off mid-sentence and – despite the pain, despite the sadness—he finds it within himself to somehow gently smile at Peter, “No, it’s okay. It...It’s good. I want to tell you this,” 

Peter stays quiet, nodding solemnly and pulling the blanket further around his shoulders as the man takes a sip of his drink. He’s lost the appetite for his own, now holding it between his hands for warmth. The story is hitting nerves for Peter, and it’s unfathomable how such horrible things happen to such good people. There’s a fight or flight response building in him and Peter doesn’t know if he wants to stay and hear much more.

“I, well...”  Steve sighs and runs his free hand through his hair, caught in his own thoughts. “I blamed myself. I blamed myself for all of it, even the things that I couldn’t have helped. I kept myself away from everyone else, so I didn’t have to face their judgement and opinions – until they approached me. A group of people just, well... they crash landed into my life. And, I sort of realised,” At this, he turns and looks directly at Peter, “I wasn’t alone. I’d never _been_ alone... I only thought I was because I’d isolated myself. I’d stopped people from helping me because I... I felt as though I didn’t deserve it, y’know?”

As frightening as it is, Peter can’t bring himself to look away. Steve’s blue eyes filled with such clarity and meaning that he can’t find it in himself to form a reply – the words are so truthful that, well, what can he say to them without sounding like a hypocrite? They hit home, attacking his mindset and grief like a disease.

“You don’t deserve to be alone, Peter.” And, suddenly, he’s had as much as he can take from this involuntary counselling session because that comment is _wrong_. He _does_ deserve to be alone because it _is_ his fault. 

Peter leans forward and puts his mug on the table roughly, the thump shattering the quiet, consoling atmosphere. When he sees Steve look up suddenly, slightly surprised, Peter turns away, “Can we talk about something else?” His voice hitches and cracks, and he can’t deny how clipped and annoyed it sounds; more like an order than a request. Immediately feeling bad, Peter takes a deep breath before adding, “...please?”

Steve appears to hesitate before answering, “Pete, I’m being serious. This is the truth.” 

Standing up, blankets and all, Peter makes a bee-line for the door, heart pounding.  He doesn’t have to be watching to know that Steve has stood up after him. The man puts a hand on his shoulder, stilling Peter in his exit. When he meets Steve’s eyes over his shoulder, they’re filled with desperation and worry. 

“Let me help you, Peter,” Steve says, his tone cautious yet tender, “ _Please._ ” 

Without answering, Peter pulls away from Steve’s grip and leaves the room quickly. He’s halfway up the stairs, but he can still hear Steve and his stupid, painful advice. “If you refuse help, you’ll miss out. I don’t want you to be that person.”

If he tries to say anything after that, it’s cut off by the slamming of his bedroom door, and the deafening silence that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, thank you to everyone so far!
> 
> The plot for this story is turning out to be more complicated in planning then I first thought, so the chapters will be longer in an attempt to fit more stuff in!  
> Everything begins to spiral into action in the next chapter which, because school is back, should be on the 27th at the latest, hopefully!
> 
> You're all brilliant, okay? This means so much to me that you're actually enjoying it.  
> Thank you.


	7. Catch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me! I'm sorry this has taken so long to write up!  
> \-- for the time being this is sort of a just post and go thing. I'll read over it tomorrow and fix whatever 'smudges' I've left behind. :) 
> 
> Uh, song for this chapter is... [The Beast Below](http://www.listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=lYCsY4VqbW4) from the Doctor Who soundtrack!
> 
> There'll be more notes at the end but, for the mean time, enjoy.

Peter spends the majority of the next day in bed, lying around and staring at nothing in particular. He’d pick up a book or a game or _something_ , but all of those things are across the room and he’s quite comfortable in his miserable quilt burrito. That, and he doesn’t really have any sort of proper motivation to _move_. His half-coherent mind is probably right in thinking that school is a terrible idea, because there’s no way he wants to deal with _that_ again. Some part of him is also pretty sure that Steve doesn’t want to, either.

He’s torn, however, because even though it sucks, school does provide some kind of distraction. Like this, Peter can’t help but dwell on everything; Steve’s advice, old memories, and _that_ night seem to have burrowed into the depths of his brain and refused to leave. The only sort of real desire he has, beside impossible things such as resurrection and time travel, is to be free – free of this absolute pit of shit that life has thrown him into.

Steve only stops in a few times, yet doesn’t really say anything except a few kind words. If Peter’s mental state gets any credit for anything, there may have also been a not-so-subtle comment about how there may or may not be an actual apple pie downstairs. It’s only when he thinks about eating, that his stomach decides to kick up a massive fuss, churning and growling loudly, giving Peter the motivation to pull himself from his bed and out of the room.

Its late afternoon, which is a little disorientating, because his blinds have been down since he’d tried to sneak out, and it’d honestly felt like an eternity of just lying there with his thoughts. Peter trudges down the stairs slowly, focusing on each step carefully as his eyes adjust to the dimming sunlight.

“What is it?” Steve’s tone is clipped and serious and, for a moment, Peter thinks that he’s the one being addressed. Blinking out the last effects of drowsiness as he stands in the doorway to the living room, it registers that Steve was actually never speaking to him. Peter decides that it’s best not to announce his presence because, despite only knowing the man for a few days, he can tell urgency when he sees it.

Steve isn’t pacing or swearing or anything stereotypical of emergency or stress; he’s standing stock still in the corner of the living room, eyebrows furrowed and mouth a grim line as he holds a phone to his ear – a top of the line Stark phone which nearly makes Peter snatch it off him just to scream about it. He doesn’t seem to notice as Peter quietly ducks past into the kitchen.

“And the others? Are they within range?”

The conversation is beyond weird for a man working with child protection services. Peter briefly wonders if it’s Phil on the other end of the line, explaining that no, no one is within range of... well, of what? What exactly would these guys need to be within range of?

“I’m on it. I’ll be there soon.”

Peter’s just pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge – possibly freshly squeezed, thanks to Steve – when he realises that Steve has seen him. His blue eyes are filled with the usual sympathy, yet his expression is oddly guarded. It definitely strikes Peter as strange, seeing as though the man is normally an open book.

He hesitates before his next reply, and Peter averts his eyes awkwardly, deciding that he’d rather not keep staring, “I – he’s okay.”

There’s a sharp pang in his chest, and Peter ducks his head, putting all of his focus into pouring a single glass of juice. Steve’s obviously talking about him, yet he can’t tell if he’s censored his opinion because the subject matter’s in the room.

He’s midway through the exaggeratedly slow process of transferring the juice to a glass when Steve clears his throat. Peter glances up briefly, spilling some juice over the bench as he does.

“Hey, uh, Pete –” Steve is standing there, eyes concerned and smile forced and sheepish. He rubs the back of his head with his hand before sighing, dropping the act and looking up ruefully, “I’m sorry, kid. I have to get somewhere quick. There’s been an – there’s an emergency at the... offices. Will you be alright for a few hours? I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Peter highly doubts his excuse; he can certainly tell when someone’s just making something up on the spot because he does it so often that he really should win an award for it. It also bothers him slightly _. Of course_ he’ll be fine, but what could possibly be so bad that Steve can’t actually tell him the truth? He’s a trustworthy – not to mention maybe slightly currently emotionally unstable- person, right?  

He’s about to complain dejectedly and head back upstairs when something strikes him. With Steve out of the house, Peter’s got free reign – the freedom to do whatever he wants. Not a party or anything stupid, but he’s actually free to get out of the house on his own accord. He doesn’t have to try – and _fail_ – to sneak out like last time.

“Oh, uh – yeah,” Peter manages a reply somewhat awkwardly, “No, er, I’ll be fine. Order some pizza, watch some shitty reruns, I don’t know.”

Steve seems at least slightly reassured by this, exhaling with relief before stepping into motion. Suddenly some part of lying to Steve makes Peter feel like he’s just kicked an entire box of puppies. He ruffles Peter’s hair quickly, managing a soft smile, “I’ll be back later tonight. You, uh, you don’t need to wait up.” And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and strides out of the living room, disappearing into the foyer.  Front door shuts behind him, echoing around the small space.

Peter is left alone in the kitchen, a faint spark of determination fluttering in his chest.

-

It’s surprising how quickly it takes him to spring into motion.

With his new motivation and good luck, Peter ducks up the stairs and scavenges around his room for his backpack, finding it in record time. His mind had been so focused on the thought of the city lights, the night breeze, and the excitement of it all, that the state of his suit pulls him up short.

_Oh._

_That’s_ why he’d hidden the bag.

The suit is crinkled and folded at awkward angles but it really doesn’t matter, especially when in comparison with the stiff mess on the material of the hands and abdomen; the physical remains of that night, _and_ of Aunt May.

Peter spends ten agonizing minutes just staring at the patch, reliving the night, before he stirs out of his stupor. He can’t keep doing this. He has to get his mind off of things. He has to be free, even if it’s just for tonight. Stiffly, he stands and, ignoring the faint rustic, metallic smell, cradles the suit on his way down towards the laundry.

It takes more time to find the washing supplies than it does to actually remove the stain. Peter is nearly physically exhausted after scrubbing so unnecessarily hard at it, but he pushes on, through tears and pain because, after all, who else could’ve removed such a stain from such a suit except himself?

The patches are damp as he pulls the suit on, but it doesn’t bother him. It feels as though he’s slowly regaining another part of himself, slipping into something so familiar. Peter double checks every door before he leaves, locking every entrance and every window, turning off every light and pulling down every blind except his the one in his room. This is his safe spot, his exit point and he needs this to stay open because, well, he can’t very well just walk through the front door as mother freaking Spiderman.

Just the same as the other night, the air is cool and calm through the suit, and he can already hear the bustle and excitement of New York waiting for him. Crouched on the window sill, Peter easily maintains his balance as he pulls the cowl over his head. Face covered, he closes his eyes and takes a single, solitary deep breath, and jumps into the night.

-

He’s swinging down one of the main streets, enjoying the rush of adrenaline and the feel of the wind, when something nearly sends him sprawling into a building. With a yell of surprise, Peter barely manages to release the web shot as the projectile shoots over him, curving outwards as it does, as though it’d tried to avoid hitting him, too.

Using the momentum of another swing, he somewhat violently catches his grip on the window of a nearby building, rattling the pane, when he hears it, “Hey, watch the goods, kid!”

It takes a few moments of Peter staring after the disappearing piece of metal to realise that – _holy shit_ – that was _Iron Man_. He nearly collided with _the_ Iron Man. Never mind that he could’ve died, that was _Tony_ mother flipping _Stark_.

Peter has to bite his lip to prevent himself from actually doing anything embarrassing, such as accidentally falling into the category of ‘fan boy’ by squealing. _Spiderman_ does _not squeal_.

He’s left clinging to the glass window of the building, breathing heavily through his awe, when something clicks. If Tony Stark is here, flying through New York as Iron Man, something must be up. It’s terrifying how quickly he makes his decision.

Although he’s not an Avenger, nor has he actually been invited to attend whatever’s happening, Peter leaps off of the building, shooting one graceful web as soon as he nears the middle of the street. It attaches easily to one of the nearby buildings, and he follows the Avenger curiously; even if this isn’t his job, it can’t hurt just to have a simple look.

The night air is cool and crisp, startling some sort of thrill into him. He’d missed this. The atmosphere of New York isn’t the same from the sidewalk or from a window in his house, especially after he’s traversed the streets from above. He can worry about everything later; right now, he’s basically flying.

He can hear the familiar wail of sirens, the red and blue flashes obvious beneath him. Tony’s long since disappeared, too fast for Peter to even dream of keeping up with. Directionless, Peter swings himself onto the roof of an apartment building, landing awkwardly and tucking into an improvised roll.  He glances around quickly before straightening, to definitely check for bad guys and not because someone might have seen that embarrassing tumble.

Even before he begins slinking across the building, Peter knows that something’s off. There’s a tense, static feeling in the air, and his suit seems to cling to him even more so than usual. He stops at the edge of the building before the low barricade wall, and looks over the street below him.

He was right; something is definitely off. The busy street is barricaded off at the end closest to him and police are all business, standing guard with what might be fear on their faces. Although they should be watching the civilians, they’re all staring fearfully at a certain point a few hundred metres down the road from him. Peter doesn’t blame them, either; it’s massive and certainly unnerving... and wickedly cool.

In the middle of two lanes, surrounded by a several mangled and upturned cars, are a few things he definitely recognises: Captain mother-hugging-baby-kissing America, the Black Widow, and the Hulk. His heart skips a few beats and he feels stupid, because all these symptoms sort of classify under teenage crush. But whatever’s happening isn’t right. Captain America isn’t swinging and throwing his shield, and the Black Widow isn’t attempting to dismember anyone. But the Hulk is still the Hulk, if not a little greener in the flickering streetlights as he stomps around and swings his arms with unbridled rage. As far as he can tell, there are no bad guys or aliens or ninjas anywhere. With a sinking feeling, Peter realises what they’re doing.

They’re trying to calm the Hulk.

Well, ‘ _catch_ ’ would be more appropriate - the Black Widow doesn’t seem to be jumping around and planting things in the ground for no particular reason - but Peter doesn’t think that that’d be very fair at all. The Captain is playing the defence, using his shield to block any fist the Hulk swings in his or the Widow’s direction, as well as serving as a distraction so the giant doesn't take a giant leap anywhere else. It’s obvious that he’s struggling to hold his own against his team mate, even from this distance.

Peter, torn between looking in the other direction and actually helping out, makes the executive decision to move closer and watch. It seems rational, because he’s not about to jump blindly into a fight which isn’t his, but he’s not about to run away from the coolest thing he’s ever seen either.

Silently, Peter slinks across the roof and easily makes the jump to the next one. He keeps his eyes from drifting over to the action too often, because he needs to also focus some part of his attention on actually making the jump and not hitting an air conditioning system when he lands.

He stops on the building closest to the action, crouching in the dark and peering at them through his mask. Everything is clearer from here, and he can actually hear them shouting, but it's indistinguishable through the loud clangs of fist against shield. The Captain, it seems, is trying to reason with the Hulk, yet failing to get through to him as the hits keep coming, pushing him back each time. The building seems to rumble and shift beneath him with the vibrations caused by every stomp and slam, and it starts to sink in just how close he really is.

Peter can feel his heart beat pick up quickly as he continues watching, and the urge to join in and release all his pent up frustration is very nearly overwhelming. Briefly he wonders where Iron Man has disappeared off to, or where Thor could be hiding, but is distracted when someone grunts from below. Immediately, his gaze flickers over to where the Black Widow is, to the left of a bent lamp post. Stepping out from between several large chunks of building and squashed car parts, it looks as if she hasn't just been jumping and running everywhere. He can’t see her expression but, judging by her stance and momentary lack of action, she’s done something to her ankle. It doesn’t look seriously damaged, but it’s just enough to make Captain America look over and spare her a glance of concern. His guard drops briefly, and it’s all the time the Hulk needs to send another wild swing in his direction. The green giant’s fist connects with the shield, and the Captain is knocked several feet sideways, slipping as he lands.

Brain screaming at him, Peter decides to screw whatever plan he had of staying out of danger, because possibly saving Captain America is better than just watching like some awe-struck fan boy.

Straightening, he doesn't hesitate in jumping over the balustrade towards the action.

And nearly loses his head.

The arrow comes fast and almost invisible in the dim lighting, and he nearly breaks his neck in an attempt to avoid it. There’s not one thought in Peter’s head – aside from _what the actual fuck_ – that isn’t praising the fact that his senses caught that before he ended up like a Halloween decoration, some arrow-through-the-head version of himself. Bent in an awkward manner, Peter can’t even pause to collect himself because - _shit_ \- now he’s falling.

He musters only enough concentration to shoot out a web at the building opposite him, saving himself from hitting the ground too hard, but still managing to drag his feet and land awkwardly on the road, and on his ass.

_Great._

Exhaling, Peter shifts and looks over to the Avengers. Whatever he was trying to do has apparently worked, because not only are Captain America and the Black Widow looking at him, both with mixed expressions of confusion and disbelief, but he’s also managed to distract the Hulk, too. He’s barely able to scramble to his feet and scuttle out of the way, a dull pain jolting up his back, as the Hulk makes a wayward, angry grab at him.

Adrenaline well and truly running through his system now, Peter shoots a web towards a nearby building and swings up and out of the way. The Hulk waves another wild hand at him, like trying to swat at a fly, and the wind of it very nearly throws him off his path. Peter thanks any and all the gods that the Hulk is too wrapped up with the others to jump at him.  A well aimed shot with his free hand, and his web hits the Hulk in the face, obscuring at least half of his vision. The giant roars and flails, tearing at his face angrily.

Peter lands beside the Black Widow, feeling somewhat proud that, even though he nearly got himself killed, he's managed to save Captain America from becoming a patriotic pancake. Her expression isn’t anywhere near impressed, being closer to well and truly pissed off. He can hear someone shouting violently through the transmitter in her ear.

His brain has to kick start because she seems to be expecting some sort of explanation, “Need some help?”

She doesn’t even bat an eye, turning to watch the Hulk as she speaks, “Make yourself useful and _don’t_ do that again.”

“Uh, alright?”

It’s difficult to tell if she actually listened to his reply, because she puts two fingers to the transmitter in her ear before running off in the other direction. Peter can’t tell whether to be offended or not, until he sees her scale a still-standing light post in three seconds flat and can’t help but admire her. She doesn't have any of his sticky web slinging abilities and yet she's still a badass.

And then Captain America’s by his side, looking ragged and covered with dirt, but even stronger and more glorious up close, compared to what he is on television. It's as if he's just done a tag team with the Widow, because she's back in action already. He looks at Peter with an indescribable expression and, for a second, Peter thinks that his hero is going to send him home like some wannabe, useless sidekick. The Captain's tone is clipped and formal as he speaks, “Stark will be here within minutes with the tranquiliser. We just need to restrain him. ...Can you do that?”

And then, almost automatically, Peter’s brain seems to malfunction and he actually has to process every single word several times because holy shit Captain America is asking him to _help_. Before he’s even replied, the Captain has run off again, using his shield to block another massive fist as it comes swinging down, more violently than before - which _may_ be his fault.

Despite his best effort, Peter’s lost track of every word the Captain had said, “What?” He shouts over the noise, hoping that he doesn’t sound like an idiot.

“Just hold him down!”

Nodding to himself, Peter grinned under the mask, “Right – aye, aye Captain!”

Wasting no time, he launches himself at the half-bent lamp post, grabbing the top. He’s only just swung himself up onto it when he realises what he’d actually said. ‘ _Aye, aye Captain’?_ Oh man, how embarrassing. Peter has to resist the urge to hit himself a few times because that is such a stupid thing to say. Way to impress a world-class super hero.  Swallowing his humiliation, he turns back to the situation at hand, willing himself not to get distracted.

From where he is now, he can actually see what they’re trying to do. Up above, it had seemed like the Black Widow was planting something in the ground and, apparently, he had been half right. With ease and grace, she jumps to and fro, grabbing and trying to loop thick metal cords around the joints of the Hulk. If he ever gets close to hitting her, the Captain’s there immediately, interfering with his shield.  

Arrows are flying more regularly now, but it’s no wonder that he couldn’t see them before – they’re quick and fast, disappearing as quickly as they come. They land in cracks and crevices of the road and in the buildings, easily embedding themselves in the surface, a long tail trailing behind them. It takes only a moment for the Black Widow to notice where they end up, jumping through the air to catch the cord that trails behind them. A few times, she lands on the ground beside them, her ankle injury barely noticeable as she bears through the pain and picks up the cord before darting off again.

She’s mostly got his arms covered, tangling them in the cord and attempting to wrap him up whenever she can manage – they don’t hold forever, because the cord can only keep together against the incredible strength of the Hulk for so long before snapping, but they seem to keep him at bay long enough for her to finish the next one. 

He has a fair idea on what he has to do, so he goes for it. With careful aim, Peter manages to hit the Hulk with his web in the middle of one of his large wrists, and immediately feels the tension on the shot. As the Hulk jerks his arm back, pulling against the restraints, the Widow’s metal cord snaps and Peter is jerked off of the lamp post with the sudden force. Thinking quickly, he uses the momentum to swing haphazardly over and underneath the arm, dragging his feet on the ground as he does. Awkwardly shifting into a run, Peter attempts to stick the web to _something_. It tightens suddenly before he can manage, losing all slack. With a sharp noise, it jerks him backwards with it. He's forcefully tugged several feet back towards the giant by his right arm, shoulder popping out painfully as he goes. Gasping and crying out, he scrambles for a few seconds through the shock, before managing to release the web from the shooter.

The tension and pull disappears, and Peter lands in a roughly on the ground, trying his best to avoid landing on the injury. His head throbs violently as he forces himself up into a crouch, and there's no doubt that he probably gave it a good whack on the ground sometime during the scuffle. He's also managed to scrape a few holes into the suit but, right now, the main concern is his right arm, which hangs painfully at his side, dislocated.

 Great.

 _Swell_.

 Fucking _ouch_ \-- this is _perfect_.

As he tries to straighten, an intense pain flares through his upper arm and shoulder, causing him to cry out sharply. Peter doesn't want to move. Normally he'd have no problem refusing to shift but, right now, he has to; he has to keep going. The pull dragged him back within range of a wayward swing or falling debris so he has to go, and quickly, whether he wants to or not. 

Brain screaming at him, teeth gritted, his shoulder feels like it's about to combust as he shifts and straightens as quickly as he can. Peter curses himself for crying out, hates how he's tearing up, but the pain is too intense. He knows how to create mathematical equations and calibrate web shooters and mechanics, but that's nothing seeing as though there is no flipping way he knows how to reset an actual shoulder.

Peter manages an awkward, agonizing shuffle to a relatively clear spot on the sidewalk, holding his arm still as he moves. Puffing, he crouches as painlessly as he can, filled with some sort of embarrassed and useless resignation as he watches them fight. Compared to them, he's an amateur at best. Peter wants to hit himself upside the head. What was he even thinking? Sure, he ' _saved_ ' Captain America, but that's nothing considering he's broken himself trying to help more. He can't help but think that he's bitten off more than he can chew, and he wants to just die on the spot because, _god_ , can he get anymore stupid than this?

He doesn't know where to go from here which, quite frankly, sucks. One dislocated shoulder and he's out of action already when, in front of him, the Captain and the Widow have barely even broken a sweat -- never mind that they're both genetically altered, he has to pick up his pace. He needs to keep going. Adrenaline dying out slowly, he's left puffing lightly and he can feel a barrage of pain begin to eat away at his shoulder. Great. Okay.   _Fuck--_

Sighing, Peter resigns himself to watching and trying his hardest not to move -- to not make this experience any more painful that it needs to be.

Nothing much has changed and, with the Widow and the Captain still immersed in battle, it's as if he'd never even interfered in the first place.

In a risky move, the Widow manages to rope a cord around the ankle of the Hulk, pinning his foot to the ground. Squinting slightly, Peter swallows and pauses, staring at it, then glancing up at the giant. A piece of the road tarmac shifts under the Hulk's large foot, fragmented and broken, freeing what should have been a brilliant restraint. The metal cord lies snapped and frayed at the giant's foot as he continues to stomp around. It's done nothing to hold him down at all, but the idea was there.

And then it clicks.

It wouldn't work normally; they can't tie the Hulk to the ground because the giant will pull it to bits. He doesn't know how to Black Widow is managing to at least get that far enough to try, but he doesn't question it. Top of the line gear and strategies, probably. By the same conclusion, it also would have ruled out sticking him to anything sort of inanimate object at risk of having cars and street lights go flying.

Crouching in the flickering greenish light of the lamp overhead, Peter can't help but smile bitterly through his injury. Although the pain has well and truly set in now, he's not going to let it ruin his chances of helping out, no matter how bad it gets. He can do this; they've got the idea, but he's got the webbing to do it.

Peter lifts his left arm and looks towards the massive stomping feet of the Hulk. They're moving erratically, and his arm won't stop shaking long enough to get a good shot lined up -- with his non-preferred hand the shot looks difficult, so much more so than it usually would be, and the last thing he wants to do is stick Captain America to something by accident.

As much as he doesn't want to, he has to move closer.

It's crazy and stupid but it will work -- it _has_ to work. He won't be in the impact zone, but he won't be entirely safe either. Worried, Peter takes a few deep breaths and bites his lip. As soon as he moves, he's going to jostle the pain again. With his left hand gently on his other arm, Peter straightens and, almost immediately, he can feel the agony of the wound flare up again. He shifts as quickly and as smoothly as he can, biting down hard on his lip in an attempt not to cry out. Falling into an awkward squat, Peter tries to get his breathing even, psyching himself up.

He needs to focus. He needs to try and concentrate through this stupid haze of pain. Through the dizziness of his concussion, Peter lifts his arm, takes a breath and shoots.

It's a short shot, and it spreads out in the air before splaying across the left leg of the giant. He's hit his target, but missed his aim. Exasperated, Peter clenches his teeth and swallows. He didn't expect to get a perfect mark, but at least some sort of result would have been good. Instead, he's missed sticking the leg to anything at all, including the raggedy shorts.

The Hulk sees the webbing before anything else, and tugs against his failing restraints to tear it from his skin. Guard still up, the Captain immediately glances over. Concentrating, Peter ignores him. He'll get this next shot in -- it'll be perfect and right and no one will be able to complain about it.

Peter levels his good arm, aims for the inside of the Hulk's right leg, and shoots.

One of the large cords snaps loudly, and the Hulk shifts violently, catching the web on his arm and chest.  Roaring, he struggles, the web straining but not breaking under the strength. Peter's moment of triumph -- never mind however accidental the shot might've been -- is interrupted when the Hulk swings his free arm, snapping the half-done restraint.  He catches the Widow with the back of his hand, throwing her more than a few feet backwards out of the air. Peter doesn't see how she lands or if she's alright, because the Hulk turns on him suddenly.

From this distance, nothing would be safe from the Hulk, especially a broken teenage boy. Peter meets the eyes of the beast briefly, a strange, furious emerald green, and fear drops heavily into his stomach.  

_Shit._

He's barely able to scramble to his feet as the Hulk tears towards him, knocking cars and debris, as well as Captain America himself, aside like bowling pins. Grunting and staggering slightly, Peter shoots a web at the balcony of a nearby apartment building, just barely managing to pull himself up and out of the way. The Hulk makes a wayward swing at him, almost catching his foot. The air drags past, causing Peter to land clumsily on the metal grate flooring of the balcony.

From below, the Hulk growls loudly at him and tears again at the webbing on his arm. Breathing heavily, Peter holds his own arm steady and looks around, blinking through the cloudy mixture of fear and pain. There's only up or down from here, and he really doesn't want to risk hanging around much longer. 

Without warning, the Hulk jumps and snatches at the balcony. It bends and crumples beneath his feet, and Peter staggers. Forced to make a decision, he jumps the edge with haste, throwing himself at the next available surface, when Iron Man drops from the sky.

Distracted, Peter only barely manages to grab the ledge of the next window over.  He grunts, breathing heavily as he glances down. It's maybe ten foot drop and, normally, that'd be nothing, but he doubts that he'll be able to land safely in his condition. To his left, the Hulk has torn the balcony to bits and thrown the crinkled metal remains to the floor.

Iron Man walks forward, his suit clinking against the ground. He stops just beside where Peter hangs, facing the Hulk without fear as the giant turns to face him, growling. In silence, Tony Stark raises his arm and fires. A sharp, pointed arrow head bursts from the wrist of his suit, expanding and shifting mid-flight. It attaches to the Hulk's large chest, three pronged hooks grabbing and digging into the odd green flesh. It beeps twice, and the giant tears towards them.

He barely hears the second round of beeps from the device, before the Hulk stops and seizes up, his large muscles twitching violently. After a few moments, the giant drops to his knees with a loud, rumbling thump, which is soon followed by the rest of his body, rocking the ground once again. Lying amongst the debris, face down on the tarmac, the Hulk doesn't move, unconscious.

The silence that follows is filled with relief and liberation. Exhausted, Peter looks down at the ground, then up at the night sky. Adrenaline gone, and pain sinking in, he takes a shaky breath and lets go of the ledge.

If he expected to be caught, it doesn't happen. Instead, he lands roughly on his feet on the pavement below, before collapsing to his knees. Rolling through with the momentum, Peter ends up with his left side on the ground, grunting in pain and hissing through his teeth.  The pain in his right shoulder has flared up again, muting the rest of whatever discomfort he could be feeling. His head is throbbing violently, and he squeezes his eyes shut, preferring the darkness to the flickering street lights.

"Hey, you alright, kid?"

It briefly registers that someone is actually trying to talk to him but, as Peter slowly rolls over onto his back and squints slightly, all he can see is the shadow of Tony Stark in his red, shining armour. Brain screaming, shoulder burning, he manages a grunt of recognition. Stark turns and looks to his right, speaking to someone Peter can't quite see. Over the sudden sounds of helicopters and yelling, the words are indistinguishable.

Faintly, Peter thinks he hears his name -- his _actual_ name -- and someone crouches down beside him. He can make out the white star of Captain America's uniform, as well as the concerned tone of his voice, and absently wonders how Steve is going to react about his little... 'outing'. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, okay. Feel free to totally skip this.
> 
> I am so, so sorry everyone. This took forever because, being quite truthful, a whole lot of shit decided to pop up in my life around that time. A heap of stress and just, yeah. Emotionally trying whoozit. Several times I've come back to this chapter to actually write more, but it just wouldn't come. I changed bits and pieces so many times I was just about ready to tear my hair out. I'm still not entirely happy with this, but it's pretty good for now.
> 
> I wanted to extend a massive thank you to everyone who has read this so far, especially to those who have left comments. Some of the things you've said have quite literally shoved me into motivation and, for that, I thank you.
> 
> I think I know where I'm heading with this story now and, for the time being, I can't quite be certain when I'll update next. Perhaps in a few weeks, after final exams when I finally become free!!
> 
> tl;dr - STUFF HAPPENED BUT I'M BACK AND I LOVE YOU ALL, THANK YOU. :)


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me this is only an interlude!!  
> I apologise for the lack of activity, but I've had a rather busy last few months.

He looks down over the mess with a scowl.

From the ledge of an overlooking building, he can see it all. The giant appears almost oddly serene as the pawns swarm around it, the weapons in their hands looking almost fragile in comparison to the pure size of what they face. Nearby, the light glancing off the golden Avenger is terribly bright as he stands in borderline annoyance, yet brazen is truly in Stark's nature no matter how one looks at it. The assassins converge around their Captain, who kneels with the delicacy of a queen beside the boy on the pavement. In the hunch of his shoulders he appears almost grim with guilt, his hands uneasy as they hover over the broken thing on the broken paving.

But the boy, there's still a life in his cracked body. He can feel it from the rooftop as the Avengers crowd around him, almost yelling their obscenities and apologies. The Captain is fraught with concern, almost on the edge of frustration as he unwillingly moves away for the medics. Stark turns to him, a snippy remark hanging from his lips, but is left unheard in the wake of his leader's stormy exit. The female spares him a glance before following, where the archer remains back for a few words.

Yet his eyes are once again drawn to the fragile thing on the floor. It's a curious thing, but there's almost something captivating about him. It's neither the blood nor scrapes in the flimsy costume, but the determination and fight; the desperation in his previous movement and impulsive actions.

He's almost grateful for the cover of darkness shrouding him from sight. Still, he doubts that the archer's firm gaze could have glimpsed him through the night as he takes a final, cautious look around him.

And then, the God of Thunder, with all the grace of a beast, plummets from the sky and fractures the road in his landing. Dust and debris kick up around him, and he's welcomed with shouts and dark expressions.

He speaks with Stark, and the resigned echo in his voice is audible from the rooftop, "I have found nothing."

Victory swells in his chest and determination crackles at his finger tips. He may have lost the Hulk, yet he's still at the advantage. And there's something more to this now. There's another pawn at his disposal, another piece in his hand.

As the boy is lifted from the pavement and the band of misfits retreat towards their tower, he finds himself standing in the darkness at the crest of the building, a smirk playing on his lips.

It's time to return to work.


End file.
